Saturday, 4 April 2015

Playing With Fire

His hand trembled as he held onto the glass bottle. The inside was filled with petrol and an oily rag hung half out - half stuffed in.

He crept along the brick wall, 'JOIN THE SDF' was sprayed across the bricks in white paint with a badly painted Union Jack to its left. He came to the corner and peered around the edge. Three balaclavad men stood some 10 metres away, chatting and at ease. Members of the SRM, surely. He lifted the naked flame of the lighter up to the tip of the oily rag. It caught alight.

Shaking with nerves, he quickly turned around the corner and tossed the glass bottle towards the men. It landed 12 feet away from them and exploded in a ball of flames. The closest to the flames staggered forward, turning around - gun raised - and looked, half squinting, at the source of the projectile. A scraggy haired head shot back behind the wall.

He was on the move, running through the back alleys, not looking back, heartbeat thumping in his ears, longing for home. Any minute now he expected a bullet to hit him from behind. 

He took a left and hugged his back against the wall, panting, he felt naucious but he knew his big brother would be proud. He heard no footsteps or commotion at all and knew the coast was clear. He pushed himself away from the wall and turned the corner, bumping into three armed men.

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